A Song for the Lonely
by xLady-Helenax
Summary: He was a wanted man, and she was naught but his wife, left alone. Lucissa, one shot.


This story, although it doesn't mention their names, is implied to be about Narcissa Malfoy.

I do not own anything regarding, or related to, the Harry Potter series. That's JKR's job.

I do take ownership to writing this, however.

**Many thanks to my beta, ****D0nQuix0te, as always.**

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A white room

There was a white room. The tall ceilings, white walls, and large picture windows made it seem as if it were a heaven on earth. The thin white curtains, almost veils, moved softly with an invisible breeze.

A piano, black and grand, sat in the middle of the room, with not a speck of dust on its shining surface. The white keys, ivory to that of the ebony black keys between them, were untouched in ages. The piano, beautiful as it was, had not been played in a long time.

A single rose sat on its surface, unmistakable, white, soft and beautiful. Those were words he'd used to describe her before…

She waited for it to wilt – for it's petals to become hard and wrinkled, to lose their beauty, their majesty, to crumble at a simple touch.

A woman, blonde hair pushed behind her shoulders, sat at the seat of the piano, her hands on her lap. She gazed down at the keys with hooded eyes, an expression of loneliness playing on her pale visage.

She gripped her dress with her long, thin fingers, crumpling the fabric between her fingers. Her brows furrowed, and her eyes clenched, obscuring tears that threatened her vision. She pressed her lips in a tight line, the perfect red turning to white from the pressure.

The piano, it's keys, the rose, the room, they all mocked her. They were constant reminders of _him_, and it was something she almost couldn't bear.

The piano was perfect. It was in perfect tune, the keys were perfectly formed, and the legs were carved with a design so perfect that one would think that angels, or better, had crafted them.

It reminded her so much of _him_.

The rose, that damned rose. When it was picked, it was in its purest; white, soft and the most beautiful one in its bush. When it was in a vase, it was the centre of attention, surrounded by other flowers that paled in comparison to its beauty.

But as it aged, it would wilt, and it would shrivel, and it would cease to be the beauty it once was.

It… reminded her so much of herself.

Many hours an evening had been spent with her sitting at his side as he effortlessly pressed the keys down, playing tunes so gorgeous she thought she was in heaven. With his music, he had the uncanny ability to take her into high's she'd never experienced, bringing her to places she could only imagine.

He would smile when she did, smirking that his music, _only his_, could elicit such a reaction from her. He could cherish the fact that when _her_ head leaned on his shoulder, and _her_ hand pressed against his upper arm, it caused him to shiver, and his music, his inspiration, would explode in wonder.

They worked perfectly together.

And then he was taken away.

Her hand rose to hover over the keys, twitching to touch even just one of them. O, how she longed to hear even just one note played. She wanted to hear another aria, another sonata, another lullaby, another anything, to uplift her awful spirits.

But she wouldn't play it.

She would not dare.

The piano was not meant for her to play. It was his. It was his instrument. It was simply just the catalyst to her happiness.

She sighed.

She'd had enough.

She rose from her seat, flattening her dress so it became perfect once again. She stood up straight, poised like a woman of her class should be, and walked out of the room. The door closed behind her, taking her into a black, foreboding place.

Taking her back to the reality, where he was not. Where there was a war, and she was naught but some form of a casualty of it.

Where he was a wanted man, and she was naught but his wife, left alone.

Where the fact that the love they shared, one more powerful than any ever known, meant nothing to anyone, and was unimportant.

That room would remain white. Its curtain would remain as veils, billowing to a wind that would remain to never be there. Its walls would remain barren. Its piano would remain untouched until he returned.

She couldn't say as much for the rose.

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AN: For the readers of my KakaSaku one shot series, I am terribly sorry for not updating in... well, forever. I've not had much time to do a lot, especially to write anything :( It may also have to do with my taking two arts courses this semester - my creativity is completely worn out by the time I get home (as well as my energy) and I haven't had a muse in weeks!

I'm going to continue being busy, though. I'll be going on a week long trip to Boston soon, and up until there are many, many rehearsals with my choir(s). Needless to say, I don't even have a lunchhour to myself anymore! It's pretty exhausting!

BUTBUTBUT. DQ and I are going to make massive, crazy, maniacle, awesome plans while we're gone (yes, she's coming too). So I hope to put those onto the computer once I get back.

If you happen to live in Boston, and see a horde of teenager-ish looking things walking around a tourist area of some sorts, who may or may not break into song, I'm probably in that horde.

Until the next time I can post something!  
xLHx


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